


A Nice Night Out

by angelblack3



Series: We're All A Little Mad Here [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Bondage, Implied Torture, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always thinks John deserves luxurious things. John is learning to accept this. All in all, it is a fairly lovely evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for being so patient with me. Truly, you are all the absolute best. I will be uploading the next chapter to Stone Blood and Bone after this, so I'm very sorry that my updates are so sporadic right now. 
> 
> Much thanks to PrettyArbitrary for her fantastic advice on men's wear. Because I don't know a button up from a cumberbatch....wait....
> 
> Again, I hope this has been worth the wait, for there will be a little more waiting to be had. Not as much as last time! But still. Thank you all of you beautiful people!

When John sees the large black box on the bed, he's not even wary. Wariness implies having something left to be afraid of, but he does feel a cautious curiosity. He sets the medical journal that he'd been reading on the night stand, and goes to inspect. 

It's expensive, that much is obvious. The material of the box is thick and textured, and John's beginning to piece together what the box contains. Removing the lid makes a slight whispering sound. The contents are hidden underneath thin, opaque paper that he suspects costs at least five quid a sheet. 

When he peels it back, John's breath exhales in awe. The fabric of the suit jacket is deep navy blue, and when he presses a hand on the material, it turns to indigo. It's as cold and smooth as marble and John doesn't want to pull it out for fear of wrinkling it. 

He does eventually remove it, eager to see if there's more underneath. Placing it on the bed feels like transferring a rare jewel from its display case in a museum. The ebony lining shines in the soft glow of the lamp. There's matching dress pants underneath, as well as a sky blue button-up that will vividly bring out the hues of the suit. There is a tie pin with matching cuff links tucked away in the corner inside of a velvet bag, and John would bet money that they're made from genuine diamonds. The tie is pinstriped, the base is the same colour as the suit but the lines are white. The pocket square is wrapped in its own sheet of paper. A pair of shiny black shoes and a pair of cashmere socks rest at the very bottom. 

John can only roughly guess how much this ensemble costs. It's somewhere above his entire year's pay from his old job at the clinic, and roughly below a Lamborghini. 

"It's bespoke as well," Sherlock's voice rumbles from the doorway, "I had your measurements memorized quite a while ago, and I finally put the knowledge to practical use."

Well that certainly leaves John's gross income in the dust. But it's still below the luxury car. Unless the fabric was hand dyed in the tropics of India, using a rare flower that only grows on a dangerous mountain top. Which, wouldn't necessarily surprise him, so much as impress him that they could find enough of the flower. 

It's a long time before John says anything, "What's the occasion?" And he tries not to think of a possible answer. Whatever his imagination will come up with, the reality will more than likely be a thousand times worse. 

Sherlock blinks, and his lips tighten fractionally. "Do you really not remember? Please tell me you are only acting the part of a complete idiot."

It's John's turn to look surprised. His mind races, but he can't think of any conversations he's had with Sherlock that had anything to do with an important function. They had their usual argument over whether or not they got to have a night watching a mindless movie or going out to see a play. It's always John that wants to go outside, and Sherlock that doesn't want to share. But that had been resolved as quickly as it had begun, with the normal outcome. Sherlock had gotten his way. 

There had been a particularly nasty day two weeks ago, when John had found a severed head in the fridge. He'd spent most of the afternoon hunched over the sink, trying not to throw up and washing out the bile when he did. He'd repeatedly told himself that it wasn't anyone he knew. His friends were safe. This was just a nameless face. He'd tossed it in the bin, then took it out with the trash for anyone to find. Turns out, rotting head smells exactly like rancid meat, and they'd only gotten a loud complaint from the neighbors for the stink. Sherlock had sought out his retribution with the riding crop, a bottle of alchohol, and John's feet for a solid two hours for the inconvenience. 

Again, that had been resolved. And disobedience isn't rewarded with expensive clothes. He honestly can't think of why Sherlock has bought him something so luxurious, and the man rolls his eyes in aggravation. "Anniversary, John," he drawls, "It's our one year anniversary today. Usually these imbecilic society driven days of importance call for special gifts and activities don't they?" 

John's mind is too busy whiting out to respond to the rhetorical question. A year? A full year? They've been...'together' for that long now? When he focuses again on Sherlock, he looks contemplative. 

"Hm, I'd forgotten that you'd never memorized the day that we met." He steps closer, and John doesn't even tense up when he caresses a spindly hand over his neck and up to the side of his face. "Shame that you didn't mark it with the same significance I did. Arguably, it had more of an affect on your life," he mocks. He idly rubs his thumb along the underside of John's cheekbone.

His eyes glaze over as he reminisces, "It's remarkable how much you've changed since then. A pitiful old soldier, desperate for some hint of excitement in his life, even if it came from a complete stranger. Now look at you," he smiles, and the pride in that grin makes John's stomach churn, "tempered steel. Every day you face a battle you can't possibly hope to win. Yet you march on, back straight, eyes front. Ever the warrior." He lets his hand fall to his side, and John takes a deep inhale through his nose. He hadn't noticed that he'd even stopped breathing.

The silver eyes wordlessly take him apart for a little longer, before Sherlock abruptly orders, "I don't blame you for not remembering a date you hadn't even considered. But a repeat transgression won't be so easily ignored, am I clear?" 

John clenches his teeth, "Understood. Would you like me to start trying to recall the exact minute you ruined my life, or can I use the broader interpretation and expand it to the date?" 

Sherlock only smirks, "The date is fine. Though that's flattering of you to ask." He pushes past John, heading towards their wardrobe. He's peeling off his suit jacket and button up before he says, "Get dressed. We need to be at our reservations in an hour."

"I need to shower," John argues feebly.

"Nonsense, you showered this morning, you're fine. Besides, I like it better when you smell like me."

John knows that very well. That's why he wanted to take the shower. But he huffs and starts putting on the suit. They dress turned away from each other, the picture of a domestic couple. Except when John slides off his pants, his thumb brushes over the initials 'SH' branded on his hip. When he shrugs into the shirt that's as tangent as a whisper, he shifts the shoulder that holds a tracker right beneath the skin. They're going to have to change that soon, if they don't want John's body morphing it into his cells. He doesn't look forward to the surgery. He's attempting to arrange the tie around his neck when he hears a soft "Oh," behind him. 

John turns, and his breath catches. Sherlock looks stunning. His suit is of a slimmer fit, and a deep wine red with a white shirt underneath. The buttons are black, and he's forgone the tie. Out of the both of them, John is the one with more accessories. Though maybe it's because Sherlock doesn't need that much to attract attention when he walks into a room. When they first met, there had been a magnetism even before all of the mystery that had trapped John like a fly in honey. Sherlock fills the space he's in, leaving no room for anyone else. He sneers and eviscerates with words and action anything that challenges the supreme mastery he has over everyone he's come in contact with.

The only one that Sherlock seems to have made accommodations for is John. And doesn't that just make him feel warm and fuzzy on the inside? 

Sherlock's looking at him now the same way he always does whenever John's done something surprising. With absolute and undisguised hunger. Sherlock moves, and suddenly he's behind John, pushing him towards their mirror. John grumbles a little bit out of habit for being manhandled, but stops short when he sees his reflection. 

He almost doesn't recognize himself. There's an attractively tanned man with changing deep blue eyes every time he shifts his face. The cut of the suit rests easily on his shoulders, accenting the flare of his hips and contouring ever so provocatively along his backside. The tie is a little lopsided, but Sherlock fixes that from behind him with a few efficient moves of his hands. Which is just not fair that he's able to put a tie on from that angle, even if there's a mirror to help. The glittering pin and cufflinks only draw slight attention. All of the emphasis is on John and how the suit is able to make the features he didn't even know he had pop. 

He shifts his eyes to Sherlock's who has been cataloging his reactions this entire time. "Well, I will say this," John says after he clears his throat, "you have very good taste." And he can't help but admire the artful contrast of the pair of them when Sherlock chuckles and drapes his red arms over John's shoulders. The pale hands run over his chest, before sliding into John's pockets and pulling him back, until he's flush against Sherlock. 

He leans down and kisses the space between John's ear and neck before growling, "Of course I do. I found you, didn't I?" Sherlock revels in the little shiver John tries to hide. He pulls away though, maneuvering John back towards the bed. John thinks he knows where this is headed and that they'll be late for their reservations after all, until Sherlock forces him to sit and the man kneels in front of him.

It's when Sherlock starts to pull off John's cheap and generic socks that he catches on. Sherlock slides the box closer to him, and pulls out one of the cashmeres. Before placing it on John's foot, he brings it up onto his knee, and John idiotically panics that his feet will somehow leave a stain on Sherlock's suit. Sherlock seems to sense this somehow, and runs his thumb soothingly along the arch. He leans down, and places a reverent kiss on the skin he was caressing, before gently sliding the sock on. 

John doesn't know what this is. What this worship is supposed to mean, and it freaks him out more than a little. It's not that the man doesn't constantly obsess over him. One time Sherlock had tried to document exactly how many hairs he had on his head, and John had thought he'd never get the bloody crick out of his neck. But Sherlock's already done his feet, cataloged every callous and line. The only time he pays this much attention to them anymore is when he's beating them to a pulp, or when he's watching his toes curl when Sherlock strokes his dick in a way that shoots through his spine. 

Sherlock nearly does the same thing with the other foot, but he stops when he's leaning down to kiss. There's a very small mark on the sensitive skin of the arch. Smaller than a fingernail, but the white skin of the scar is still discernible. It's from the incident with the riding crop, and Sherlock's eyes go dark from the memory. 

"I didn't know this had left a scar," he says, continuing to stare at it. It takes a few seconds for John to put together what Sherlock is talking about, and he swallows. 

"Me neither," John says, and it's true. It's not like he pays as much attention to all of the details of his body like Sherlock does. His feet had been bloody and burning by the end of his punishment, but John had done the routine. He'd wrapped them up, kept off his feet for a day, and went on with his farce for a life. It'd been harder than usual. Sherlock liked the way John flinched every time he walked, and had even mused aloud that having him walk on all fours would be both endearing and convenient. 

"You would never do it though," John had dared, heart beating in his throat.

"And why not?" Sherlock had asked, turning his page, pretending not to watch as John became the terrified warrior again.

"Because then you'd have to make your own bloody tea for a change." 

Sherlock had laughed uproariously at that, and proceeded to snog John senseless for a good hour. He'd conceded the point, but promised to come up with a creative solution eventually. John's been waiting for the day the man takes a claw hammer to his navicular bones.

Sherlock suddenly presses his nail viciously against the scar. John hisses, and tries to pull away, but Sherlock keeps his grip on John's ankle. He soothes over the indentation, and presses a kiss over the little mark. The hair at the back of John's neck prickles from the misleading combination of pain and wet heat. 

Sherlock rubs the scar one last time, and puts the sock on. The shoes go on next, and there's no odd sudden reverence there, thank Christ. But now the air is charged with an odd tension. It's not like Sherlock to stop, with pain or pleasure, regardless if there's dinner plans waiting or not. Which is a load of bollocks anyway. Sherlock could buy, threaten, or blackmail an entire chain to do his bidding all with a few quick taps from his Blackberry. But stop Sherlock does, and he pulls John up to stand when his phone gives a small chime.

"That will be the car, come along John." The man blinks, and follows after the suited criminal. 

"Should I even bother to ask where we're going?" John asks as Sherlock holds the door open for him when they exit onto the street. The night is muggy, but not overpowering, hence the absence of a proper jacket. John can't imagine what sort of extravagant piece Sherlock would have bought for him then. Probably would've been made from the fur of some rare species of jungle cat. 

The car waiting for them isn't quite a limousine, but that's only because a car like that is too obvious. This one shares a sleek black design with tinted windows, but John highly suspects that they're bullet proof and can only be opened from the outside with a special key. Wonderful, he hasn't been inside of a mobile cage in a while. 

Sherlock opens this door too, though there's a man in a cheaper suit that had been sliding out of the driver's seat to do just that. It's the odd bulk by his hip that makes John think, 'armored chauffeur'. And maybe Sherlock has been rubbing off on him more than he cares to dwell on. 

"Of course not John," Sherlock grins at him, "that would spoil the surprise." 

John rolls his eyes and huffs, but he slides into the far seat without further prompting. Sherlock follows, and when he closes the door behind him, John begins to recognize his old friend dread curl around his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with me! There are no words to describe what your encouragement means to me. :) I hope you enjoy! I didn't even realize the last sentence for this chapter was the last sentence until it had been written. It was a weird feeling of relief and befuddlement. 
> 
> The continuation of my other projects are well on their way! Again, thank you all so much.

Wherever they’re going, it’s a decent drive. And John occupies himself by staring out of the tinted window. Not that there’s much to see, just his own dead gaze. His arms are crossed, and he’s slumped against the car door. He thinks he must look like he’s being carted off to prison instead of being shepherded to a possibly luxurious location on an anniversary date. 

He wonders whether actual prison would be a relief for him. Or would the fear for his life, the captivity, the micro-management of his livelihood and the threat of being raped really be all that different from his new life? The thought grants him a small smile. 

Sherlock interrupts his speculations, “What are you thinking about?” 

John looks over, knowing that it always annoys Sherlock when he doesn’t look at him whenever he speaks. Normally John revels in whatever petty grievances he can cause, but tonight is supposed to be special. Any willful slight on his part could lead to drastic consequences. But then again, that’s not very different from any other night is it? 

Sherlock’s storm grey eyes have probably never left his face ever since he was situated in the car. Which is what prompts John to jab, “What, you can’t tell from the way my eyes flicker in their sockets?”

Sherlock snorts derisively, “As wide as my reach goes, and as impressive as my abilities are, telepathy is not one of my talents John.” His gaze turns inwards suddenly, as if the possibilities of such an action had never crossed his mind. To be fair, they probably haven’t. What good is mind-reading to a man who can tell you your life’s story by looking at your sleeve cuff? 

“Although,” Sherlock says thoughtfully, “the idea of being able to read your every thought does have a certain romantic appeal to it.” 

It’s John’s turn to snort, “Yes, well, please forever leave me out of your theories of ‘romanticism’.” John fidgets with the end of his jacket sleeve. 

Sherlock only smiles, “A tad late for that, isn’t it?” 

John huffs out air in a half-formed laugh, and it sounds like a weary surrender. 

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Sherlock points out, “What were you thinking about earlier?” 

John almost tries to lie by saying that he doesn’t remember. Right now, it seems like more trouble than it’s worth to bring up his darkly humorous thoughts. But lying will only make it worse, and he’ll end up telling Sherlock anyway, for one reason or another. John briefly remembers how much he took for granted in his old relationships. How he could simply say that he didn’t want to talk about something and the matter would be dropped. Perhaps not happily, but the consideration of his privacy had been there. Now he’s forced into conversations he’d rather not discuss. It’s equivalent to pulling out his teeth with nothing but his own words. 

No. That’s not quite right. It’s more like he’s walking blind into a minefield, and his steps are guided by someone on the end of a radio that doesn’t like him very much. Sherlock loves to watch John fall to pieces.

Not willing to drag this out any longer, John answers, “Just wondering if prison would be very different from my daily life.” 

Sherlock chortles and John really should give up on trying to predict a mad man’s emotions. “I should think so,” Sherlock says with a curled smile, “the company, at least, is infinitely preferable.” 

“Debatable,” And John could either slap himself, or try to bite off his tongue and end all of his troubles. 

The smile freezes on Sherlock’s face. John doesn't dare look away. There’s a time and a place for submission, a lesson John has learned through sweat, blood, and tears. Doing so now is begging for the wolf to tear out his throat.

Sherlock hums thoughtfully, and tilts his head at him. The gesture is at odds with the smile that is carefully kept in place. But it’s also so weirdly befitting that it makes John’s skin prickle. 

“We’ll see,” and this time it’s Sherlock’s turn to stare out the window into nothing. It’s not long before they reach their destination, which John considers a blessing. Then again, it entirely depends on where they’ve stopped. 

He uncrosses his arms and goes to open the car door, but halts when Sherlock says, “Not just yet.” John’s hand remains in the air, but he doesn’t move it towards the door. Sherlock reaches into a little pocket in the car door beside him, and pulls out a black blindfold.

John looks at him incredulously, “You can’t be serious.” 

Sherlock blinks at him, “Studies have shown that an air of mystery heightens the experience and positively draws out the surprise.”

“Yeah,” John drawls, “for normal couples. You know, the ones that don’t involve scarring and a perpetual sense of terror. ‘Drawing out the surprise’ in this sense just translates to ‘letting the dread simmer’.”

Sherlock grins at him, “Precisely. What better way to bring excitement to an outing than prolonging a feeling of foreboding?” The worst bit is that John can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. 

But arguing, as he knows, won’t change anything. So he takes the blindfold away with an irritated huff, and slides the fabric over his eyes. It’s a bit like a sleep mask, so it rests comfortably enough on his face. It certainly serves its purpose, as he can’t see a bloody thing except the black of the satin. 

He hears Sherlock exit out of his side of the car door, and feels cool air when his opens up. He shifts, groping for the top of the car door to judge the distance from banging his head. He gets a foot out before he feels someone, Sherlock, (of course, it’s always Sherlock) take him by the arm and pull him gently the rest of the way out. 

After that he’s being led around the car, presumably towards a building. Sure enough, he hears one of the henchmen open up a door. John goes first, so it’s not that big of one, though he could hardly deduce anything even if it _was_ a large door. There’s a sort of hollow emptiness that echoes around them when the door shuts. For a second, he thinks he’s in some sort of warehouse, but everything just… _feels_ cramped. 

Not tightly squeezed in. Not like boxes that locked away light and fresh air and became a standing coffin above ground. It’s just that sound doesn’t echo off as far as a storage center. It’s a normal building, just abandoned. 

But then the smell hits him. Antiseptic, sanitizer, the faint tang of medicine and cheap food. He’d recognize it anywhere. He’s in a hospital. 

Thoughts of electrodes, metal tables, scalpels, straps, tranquilizers and too much _white_ send him spinning downward. The blindfold over his eyes just serves to enhance that feeling of vertigo. It reminds him of that unnerving sense of always being watched even when he couldn’t see Sherlock’s eyes peeling him down to the bone. He remembers the darkness being the only thing he could see for what had felt like _months_ inside of that box. 

Sherlock suddenly grips his arm, which is what stops him from running into the wall to try and claw his way out again.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice startles him into stillness. He’s gasping for breath. He’d been hyperventilating. 

“You’re safe,” he soothes, “We’re only waiting for the lift. We’re not stopping here. There’s nothing for you to fear.” The deep timbre of his voice is the only thing that has any stability. The velvet tones are the ropes that John clings to in the sudden fathomless pit that has become his mind. And as much as he loathes that Sherlock is the one who did this to his psyche, he’s infuriated with _himself_ over letting Sherlock’s voice be the thing that guides him back from a panic attack. 

“That’s it,” Sherlock encourages when John’s breathing begins to smooth out. The hand on his arm leads him to the side. They step forward, and the faint scratchy sound of music tells him they’re on the lift. He’d been so far gone he hadn’t even heard the ring. 

John pulls away, unable to stand the comforting weight on his arm. Sherlock lets him have whatever space is available. The thought that he’s in an enclosed space with the man does nothing for his nerves, but he breathes deeply through his nose to try and dispel those thoughts. The back of his head hits the wall with a solid thunk. Dry laughter leaks out of his throat and he creaks, “So far, I’d say this date is going exactly the way I thought it would.” 

Sherlock huffs a laugh as well. “I would say that I’m sorry to have given you such a fright, but I’m really not.” It’s not that he hasn’t seen John scared recently. Quite the opposite in fact. Dread clings to John like heady cologne, ready to evolve into terror at a second’s notice. He certainly hadn’t meant to keep John on a knife’s edge for so long, but that is the result of his presence. 

Tonight, he plans to change that. If he wants John to finally accept him, to unconditionally find his place in this new world Sherlock’s created, it won’t due to have him constantly paranoid. He wants John to understand that there is no real threat over his head.

Oh, there will always be things that John will object to. But that is not the real issue. Sherlock knows that John still thinks that one day Sherlock will be bored with him. That John will wake up strapped to a surgery slab and Sherlock will be there with a scalpel and disappointment in his eyes. 

But that will never happen. Sherlock knows this. He will always adore John. He will always want to see the hidden parts of him, the physical and the mental. The shadows that even John doesn’t pay attention to. Sherlock wants him to know that he will never have to fear his anger from going too far. When it comes to John, he will always use the utmost caution.

Sherlock hasn't forgotten his original plan. He still wants John to love him. That particular avenue hadn't gone the way he had wanted, but Sherlock has been patient. And he will continue to be patient. John’s acceptance is something he is more than willing to wait for, and they have all the time in the world.

John laughs at Sherlock’s honesty, “Would've probably thought you’d been replaced by a clone or something if you did.” 

He can practically _hear_ Sherlock frown at that. And John dissolves into hopeless giggles at Sherlock’s frustration at his references to the impossible. He doesn’t normally get to slip in silly little things like that. His life is hardly one for humor. 

The inside of their metal box dings, and the doors open close to silently. Sherlock places his hand back on John’s arm, leading him again. Their footsteps echo a little eerily, considering that John knows this is a hospital. There should be equipment, the steady beeps of machinery and people to bounce away the noise.

They walk down a little ways, and now that the panic attack has mostly subsided, John is left to fret over what Sherlock could possibly have in store. He has absolutely no idea where they are in the hospital, as the more familiar smells have faded away. He doesn't even know how many floors they've gone, or in which direction. 

Hell, he’s still scrambling for why they’re here in the first place. 

John hears a door click open, and he’s being softly pushed into a room with…

He nearly comes to a dead stop in the middle of his stride. Is that….music? Faint strings and gentle flutes wind their way through John’s ears. He can at least tell it’s not a live band, but he has no idea what piece this is. Gone is the ever present scent of bleach. In its place are the lingering remnants of sharp smoke from a lit match, as well as the barest traces of something edible.

John’s anticipation is now on equal terms with his confusion. His fingers twitch at his sides for want of taking off the blindfold. 

The question dies in his mind when he feels Sherlock behind him. Those long fingers slide their way up behind the small band of elastic around John’s head. Careful not to get any hairs caught, Sherlock slips it off. 

Either John’s entirely misjudged what sort of building they’re in, or someone’s gone a bit overboard with the renovations of a hospital canteen. 

There are candles. Dozens of them, on every available surface. The wax drips onto the candle holders, the metal sculptures tasteful but elegant. Tiny speakers are set up in every corner of the room, playing the music that John can’t name. A table with a white linen cover has another candle in its center, though it’s much smaller. Plates that look like they’re purely meant for display wait to be filled in front of two comfortable chairs. 

Their slightly off center table is the only furniture, the rest is all open space. In order to cover up what he presumes is concrete; dark bronze drapes have been artfully folded and hung along the wall. The fabric reflects the candlelight in shimmering flickers of gold. A hand on his shoulder nearly makes John jump out of his skin.

“What do you think?” Sherlock asks, and God help him, there’s genuine curiosity and hope in that tone. John’s not sure whether to find that amusing or genuinely frightening.

“I’m….not entirely sure what I’m looking at here.” John answers truthfully. 

Sherlock sighs and gestures with his other hand. “It’s a romantic dinner John. I know you haven’t exactly been keeping up with recent culture, but I’m sure even you would recognize such a thing.” 

“It’s a candlelit meal….in a hospital?” He needs to make sure. He needs to make _absolutely_ sure he hasn’t gone stark raving mad since his ride in the car. 

“No, not just _a_ hospital,” Sherlock stresses, impatient, “We’re currently standing in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital Mortuary. This is where you trained. And, thanks to some thorough research of your school records, this is where you were presented with your first ‘abnormal’ cadaver. And my first kill.” 

Sherlock’s eyes are alight with excitement over a shared discovery. John’s about to apologize, not genuinely of course ( _liar_ ), that he can’t remember what the hell Sherlock is talking about, but then it hits him. 

Part of the training was dealing with unnatural causes of death. Not every person being wheeled into the Urgent Care or the morgue was going to die from a heart attack or from a slip down some stairs. 

It’d been generously donated by the Met when every single aspect of the body had been scoured over three times. The victim didn’t have any family, and while he’d been an organ donor, the tissue was long past necrotic to be of any real use. So John and his group of bright would-be surgeons were privileged with their first look of a murdered body. 

They’d been warned. Of course they’d been warned. But no amount of serious tones and sympathetic eyes could have prepared them after their instructor had lifted the sheet.

The skin at the sides of the mouth had been sliced upwards as far as it could go before hitting bone. The lips had been cut off with close to surgical precision, leaving the dulled teeth and shriveled gums exposed in the fluorescent lights. The first one to rush out of the room to vomit had done so after the instructor pointed out the physical signs that the mutilations had been done pre-mortem. 

Everyone had looked a little green of course. But when it became clear that the victim hadn’t been sedated or given anesthetic, the second student couldn’t even make it to the bin.

“Now I want to make something absolutely clear,” his professor had firmly addressed the remaining and slightly swaying students, “we are not forensic doctors. If you decide to go into mortuary work, this sort of body is a rarity. Not as rare as we would like, but it’s not common. Your job is _not_ to make up your own conclusions, or to analyze a motive. Your job is to determine the cause of death. Anything else is piling you with too much, am I understood?” 

Everyone had absently nodded their heads or made faint affirming noises. And John had understood. He had listened and he had paid attention to his professor. But from the way the grimace had been made, the abrasions on the wrists that had struggled against their restraints, and the way the fingers and toes were bent at every joint, John couldn’t keep his theories locked away in a box. 

John saw the obvious, he saw murder. He saw shock and blood loss. But he observed revenge. Petty or grievous, it didn’t matter. This man had offended somebody, and he paid for it in spades. Arthur Anderson had been made to understand a lesson.

John was surprised that only the two classmates had vomited. He’d managed to keep everything down, but he could barely stand the sight of smiles for a solid week.

Sherlock watches the comprehension come over John’s face. He fully understands that John won’t find it as awe-inspiring as he does, but he wanted John to know this. He wanted John to see how involved they’ve been in each other’s lives, even if they didn’t know it. 

The discovery had been a happy accident. Digging through John’s school history had provided more than just enlightening reading. When he’d seen the name of his first body, that ghastly man that he’d only briefly met when he was brought in on his first and last drug charge, Sherlock’s fingers had begun to tremble on the page. He’d barely believed it, and a quick check of the records had confirmed it. 

Sharing the enthusiasm is next to irrelevant. This is about _them_. About their relative involvement in each other’s lives. They belong together. And they always have. 

That is another point Sherlock hopes to show John tonight. And for the first time in a while, Sherlock isn’t entirely sure about his potential success. And, well. He would say he’d be damned if he doesn’t try. But Sherlock already knows that such a fate is practically sealed for him by now. 

John swallows, “You really expect me to eat after a memory like that?” His smile is pulled taut across his face. 

Sherlock shrugs, “Food will be available. Whether you eat or not is your choice. And don’t feel disconcerted about the setting. The cadavers have been removed from this room.” Sherlock walked over to the table during this, and pulled back a chair. It took John a few slow seconds to realize what he was doing. 

With a bemused smirk on his face, John sat down on the seat that had been pulled away for him. Sherlock took the one opposite and John said, “You do know that you don’t have to take all of your ‘romantic’ cues from period films right?”

Sherlock scoffed, raising an eyebrow, “Pardon me if I try to display manners John. I will try and restrain myself in the future.” Sherlock gestured in the air, and when John turned to see who he was waving to, the assumed server had already disappeared behind one of the white curtains. That had to lead to a kitchen of some kind, though John didn’t dare think of what they used as a substitute for an oven in this place. 

“Please don’t,” John mockingly begged in response to Sherlock’s derision, “if this is you being polite, I think I would die if you were rude.” His teeth clacked shut. He wondered how far away from the truth he was with that statement. 

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened across John’s hesitation. He propped his elbows on the table, and laced his hands together. “I would never kill you John,” he says with utter finality. 

John couldn’t help but scoff at that, “Somehow I doubt that. But hell, even if you never do actually finish the job, you’ll still bring me close to dying.”

Their server appeared out of nowhere to leave two full champagne glasses and a bucket of ice with their bottle inside. Once the awkward moment of his arrival came and went, John drained his glass in one gulp. 

“And have I John?” Sherlock asked as he took a sip from his glass.

John’s perplexed look compels Sherlock to elaborate, “Have I ever brought you close to death?”

John blinks. At a complete loss of what else to say, he can only half choke an incredulous, “You’re joking.” 

And then it’s like a flood gate has broken, “You’ve stuffed me in a metal box for two days. You’ve drugged me. You’ve raped me. Tortured me. You’ve used the lives of strangers and loved ones as _leverage_ against me. Every move I’ve made in the past year has been micromanaged by you. I have, quite literally,” he laughed in a way that ice cracks, “had you under my skin. And you’re asking me if you’ve ever _brought me close_?”  
The sound the glass makes as it shatters on the floor where John tossed it isn’t nearly satisfying enough. His anger is set in stone across his face as he growls, “No, Sherlock. I suppose you’ve never nearly killed me. In the strictest sense. But sometimes I damn well _wish you did_.”

And now that the pressure has been released, all he can do is collapse. John drops back into his chair like an empty paper bag. About twenty heartbeats dosed up on adrenaline pass by before Sherlock says his piece.  
“No you don’t.” He says it with such confidence that he might as well be proclaiming that he’s clever, “You don’t because you value your life too much.”

John chokes, and passes a hand over his eyes. There’s an empty pressure in his head, and if he squeezes hard enough, maybe it will make his skull explode all over the dinner table. “Some life,” he mutters, not caring if Sherlock hears or not. 

“A life of constant scrutiny cannot be comfortable;” Sherlock concedes, he remembers being under Mycroft’s eye before Jim had helped him get away, “but I do it out of my own necessity.” He raises his hand to stop John from talking when he whips up his head, “I need to be assured that you will come back John. And currently, your word for it is simply not good enough.”

Even though it really should be. God knows John wouldn’t be able to get far, and any person he came across would be blown to bits in the crossfire. 

“But your bemoaning isn’t entirely worthy.” John’s face contorts into something half rage and half incredulity, but Sherlock keeps going, “What were you before you met me John?”

“Free?” John spits, but Sherlock ignores him. 

“A shut-in, living on a soldier’s pension. A man so weighted down by his bleak life that his own physical body suffered for it. An army doctor without a sense of purpose, left to wander the civilized streets of London. Far away from the screams of the dying and the blast of gunshots. You were alone before you met me John.

I gave you a sense of purpose, I gave you direction. I turned your life of day to day desolation into one of constant battle. Can you honestly tell me otherwise?”

John is completely silent.

His unspoken words carry the truth between them.

Sherlock doesn’t smirk triumphantly, which is a relief. John’s not sure if he could refrain from punching it off of his face if he did. Instead Sherlock motions towards the waiting staff again. 

He rests his chin on his folded hands, watching as John still refuses to answer. His silence is far from withholding. Sherlock can see every conflicting emotion play out as if John’s face were a screen. 

One of their servers wheels out a tray, and another one discreetly sweeps up John’s shattered glass. Underneath the domed silver lid are two small steaming and stuffed birds. The sound of the food and utensils hitting the plate feels like the loudest noise imaginable. Another glass is placed on John’s side. It’s silently filled with more of the amber liquid, and both of the men leave without comment.

Sherlock silently commends the man as he leaves. When he had served them, his hands hadn’t shaken at all. Sherlock cuts into his meal, eyes closed, savoring the taste. It’s as if he hasn’t just told someone that their captivity is the best thing to have happened to them since war.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words of gratitude cannot fully encompass what my patient followers mean to me. So instead, here's the chapter. ;)

John just stares in shock across the table. He eventually looks down at his plate of food and weighs the petty satisfaction of throwing it at Sherlock’s face over being able to walk for a week. In the end, the growl of his stomach decides for him, and he breaks off a leg of the chicken with a loud snap. 

It’s the best food he’s ever tasted. He swallows that thought with all of the ease of drinking petroleum, and continues eating.

They sit in silence until John’s finished. When the man looks up from his plate, it’s to find Sherlock staring at him with most of his bird still intact. 

Sherlock taking an intense interest in John’s eating habits isn’t anything new. So John ignores the chill in his veins and says, “You should finish your food.”

Sherlock blinks, as if he’s forgotten that John has the ability to speak. He quickly glances down at his plate and then smirks back at John, “Invested in my health?”

“I just don’t want it to go to waste,” the soldier shrugs, “whoever made this did a good job. I’d hate to see it thrown out just because you’re picky.”

“I’m not picky,” Sherlock objects, wrinkling his nose as though the very notion of him being juvenile is distasteful, “I simply don’t find much merit in eating.” 

“Right, I forgot, mandatory bodily demands are beneath you,” John dryly says. He takes a sip of his champagne to prevent himself from saying something else.

He knows that Sherlock hardly eats. He’s lived with the man in perpetual solitude for a year. And studying your enemy’s habits is a novice stratagem. But John had mostly thought that Sherlock’s aversion to food stemmed from his mediocre cooking, or from Sherlock’s upper class sensibilities. 

‘And what good was pizza if it didn’t have caviar or gold leaf dusted over it?’ John mocked in his thoughts while smirking around his glass. In their first few months of living together, John had wildly hoped that the man would drop dead from starvation out of sheer forgetfulness or pompousness. But the man either lives on John’s misery or he eats when John isn’t looking.

“I consume what is necessary for my brain and body to survive. Anything else becomes a temptation in overindulgence,” Sherlock haughtily retorts as someone comes to take their plates. John starts to think that this is the end of their evening until another dish is placed in front of him. He doesn’t know what it is until he tastes it, and the richness of lamb is delicately balanced with a crisp mint sauce. John forgets all about the chicken, and tries to remember if the waistline of his tuxedo is adjustable. 

“So just because I enjoy eating, I’m fat?” John prods. Maybe he should stop drinking the champagne. He already feels the golden bubbles dancing in his stomach and sparkling across his mind. This is either very good alcohol, or he’s drank more than he realized. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “You know that isn’t what I mean. I don’t need a complex array of flavor in order to feel satisfied with a meal. And why waste time cooking, which takes hours of preparation, when that same dish that can be ordered and made for you?”

“The satisfaction of your efforts? Home cooked meals taste better?” John lists, trying to politely talk around each act of chewing and swallowing. He isn’t childish enough to talk with his mouth full, and doing anything else besides relishing his meal feels blasphemous.

“It all tastes the same to me,” Sherlock dismisses. He proves this by displaying no reaction when he finally tries a piece of his lamb. 

“Oh come off it,” John points his fork at the man in powerful skepticism, “you can’t honestly tell me that this tastes the same as the Chinese takeaway sitting in our fridge.” 

Sherlock’s nose wrinkles and he reaches for his flute glass, as if it will wash that statement off of his mind, “Don’t be disgusting John. You’re the only one who eats that swill.”

John frowns in confusion, “What? No I’m not. You may have the appetite of a cactus, but I know I’ve seen you eat from-“

He stops himself from finishing that sentence. Not because it will land him in some creative torture, but because he’s just had an epiphany, and a grin spreads across his face.

Sherlock has the decency to look a little abashed as John smugly asks, “You have food delivered to our flat don’t you? Food that you deliberately _disguise_ to look like our leftovers.”

“What else am I supposed to do? The food you eat is revolting. I am honestly surprised that you can even taste your dishes, what with the sludge you subject yourself to.”

“You really do eat when I’m asleep. You hide the good food like someone on a diet trying to shovel down ice cream at three in the morning. ” John gasps around his laughter. “Oh my god, this is unbelievable. My food’s never tasted different; do you eat it all at once?”

“Then I was wrong, your sense of taste is just as appalling as your deductive skills,” Sherlock retorts, before realizing he has to explain himself. “I’ve been…mixing it into your food.”

John can’t breathe for almost thirty seconds. 

“The image! The image,” he wheezes, distantly glad that he had slowed down on the lamb before this began, “of you stirring up your posh meal with ten quid leftovers. Oh, Christ, my stomach hurts,” John chuckles, wiping at an eye. 

“Alright, so,” John titters, “if those dumplings aren’t filled with shrimp, what is it then? Octopus eggs? Shark eyes? Some kind of fish that can only be found in the Great Barrier Reef?” 

Sherlock sighs in deep annoyance, “Honestly John, you’re almost being classist at this point. It’s completely normal dim sum. It’s just _better_ dim sum that I purchased from another store. They’re also slightly cheaper than the one you frequent, and it won't give you acid reflux either. You should switch.” 

John's giggles eventually tapered off, "But, hold on," John says with some bafflement, "if it's just normal Chinese then why haven't you suggested ordering from them? Instead of going all Mission Impossible on our food," John grins again at the image.

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly, "I thought it would be best if you made up your own mind on what sort of take out you should consume. I knew that any suggestion on my part would be less than welcome. And it's not a massive inconvenience to accommodate for your poor taste." 

John blinks at him. "Sherlock, you can't handle _any_ inconvenience. You once had me," he stops himself from continuing, having been interrupted by their server again. 

John managed to imperceptibly nod his head in thanks. They were given another dish, something with crushed ice that tasted slightly of rum and sparkling wine. John’s not sure if more alcohol is really advised at this stage, but it tastes good and cleanses his palate. 

John picks up on his point, "You once had me get your phone out of your own pocket because you were 'busy' with your microscope, while I was walking around the house without being able to use my hands. I had to get it out with my teeth." 

His point seemed to fly completely over Sherlock's head. The criminal looked like he was recalling a fond memory. 

“What I’m trying to say, is that you hardly, hell, you _never_ let me come to my own decisions on anything. Why in the world would you go to that much trouble over something so trivial?” 

Sherlock’s soft expression dims as he spoons some of the dish into his mouth. John waited, but an explanation didn’t look promising. The sound of silverware clinking against the bowls filled the silence before Sherlock finally admits, 

“I wanted to make you happy.”

John stills. He waits with a steady hand clenched around his utensil. 

“I know that sounds pointless,” Sherlock continues, “I’ve told you already that I’m aware I bring you…discomfort. But pushing my preferences on this seemed heavy handed. I know I take away enough of your choices, so I thought it would be best if I left this small thing up to you.”

Sherlock finally looks John in the eyes as he says, “I do want you to be content with me John. What I have you endure may give you the excitement you’ve always craved, but I know that it isn’t enough. I know it doesn’t even come close to being enough. But I do try, John.”

Sherlock reaches across the table to hold John’s hand, and he’s too stunned to pull away, “I do try to give you what you want as well as what you need. I can never promise you that what you want will always come first, but I can promise you that it is a factor. If enduring over salted food is a way to make you more comfortable, then it is no true inconvenience to me.”

Sherlock’s been rubbing small patterns with his thumb into John’s skin. He keeps passing over one particular scar between John’s thumb and pointer finger, when Sherlock had wanted to test whether or not a long incision would irreparably affect muscle movement. John’s non-dominant hand was the best specimen for experimentation. The laceration had been made with a No. 26 scalpel. John had been told not to close his eyes for the duration. He’d been allowed to flinch, but for the most part John had stared unfalteringly as his captor and his lover sliced into him. 

There’s just as much tender affection in Sherlock’s face now as there was then. 

John believes him. God help him, but he knows that Sherlock is telling the truth. And…and he’s not really sure what that means, or how he feels about it. 

The roughened tissue tingles from the rubbing. Slowly, John pulls his hand away from Sherlock’s grip, and it’s a dull surprise when Sherlock lets him. John was more shocked from this confession than he realized, as their desserts are waiting beside them. It’s so artistically crafted that it’s almost a shame to eat it. 

John dully cracks the chocolate and watches the meticulous formation splinter to land in the white mousse. He’s eaten about three bites before he manages to mutter, “Turned out to be pointless. All of that work, I mean.”

Sherlock takes a long time to respond, “Oh? How so?”

“Because now all I can think about is getting the number of your mysterious Chinese restaurant,” John half lies, and looks up to gauge Sherlock’s reaction.

The man blinks several times before smiling. John starts to giggle as well, although he’s not sure if it’s because he actually finds this funny or if it’s to stave off whatever is eating at his insides.

They continue to talk through dessert with John trying to find out if all of his leftovers have been hijacked. Just as John’s arguing that pizza can never taste bad and therefore no pizza is ‘better’ than the other, the music softly playing over the hidden speakers becomes slightly louder, and the tempo changes. 

It’s enough of a shift that John stops talking to look up in mild confusion. He looks at Sherlock to joke about someone mucking up the playlist, but it lodges in his throat when the man stands up. Sherlock stands beside John’s chair, holding out his hand and looking like confidence was something he invented.

“May I have this dance, John?” And despite that seemingly heartfelt confession from barely half an hour ago, John knows that he doesn’t have a true choice in the matter. Or, more accurately, he could refuse, and then fervently wish for an indeterminable amount of time that he hadn’t. 

Sherlock sees the hesitation and mistrust, and laughs reassuringly. It does quite the opposite to John’s nerves. 

“I can assure you that you’re allowed to say no. We’ll simply go home now if you wish, but I have gathered that this sort of evening often includes dancing. And, admittedly,” Sherlock’s expression becomes beatific; “I would simply savor the pleasure of dancing with you.” 

John’s mind is alight with the chances of his refusal being a trap. But then a part of him, the quiet part that’s been growing since their easy conversation started, asks why he would consider refusing in the first place. 

His immediate excuse is that he’s not good at dancing. He never has been. He can remember being sure-footed on the rugby field in his youth, but once his feet were inside of dancing shoes he lost all sense of coordination. Another, more vehement reason is that he doesn’t want to be that close to Sherlock. Avoiding him is never possible, but at least this time he might actually have a choice of having the man wrapped around him. If Sherlock is telling the truth, then John can just go home and face what awaits him there.

But that quiet part speaks up again; to say that accepting wouldn’t really be as repulsive as he’s trying to convince himself. Despite the rocky beginning, he’s actually been enjoying this night. And maybe dancing will help prolong this feeling of normalcy he’s been shielding like a candle in a storm. Oh, he knows that this is just temporary. He knows that soon he will go back to analyzing every interaction with Sherlock to make sure he comes out in one relatively whole piece. But now, right now, maybe he can just feel like he’s celebrating something. He can pretend. He’s become rather skilled at lying to himself.

So John smiles like he can’t believe he’s about to do this, which isn’t far from the truth, and takes Sherlock’s hand as he rises from his chair. 

Sherlock’s smile doesn’t grow, but there is a tension that’s smoothed out from his shoulders. He pulls John closer, maneuvering his hands so that one rests on Sherlock’s shoulder while Sherlock holds the other. Sherlock’s free hand rests atop the curve of John’s hip. 

John isn’t surprised at their placement, but he smiles wryly at it all the same. He looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, and is somewhat startled by how close they are. They’ve been closer, in more ways than any sane person would deem comfortable. But there’s a new intimacy in their body heat and the brushing fabric of their tuxes that shifts the floor under John’s feet. 

Sherlock can feel John’s pulse pick up from their joined hands. His fingers curl between John’s in response, promising security and entrapment in the same gesture. And then some unspoken signal passes between their eyes, and Sherlock is leading them in the dance.

The music playing around them is simple, and their movements match that. But John can’t help but look down every couple of steps to watch where their feet go. He’s not used to this relaxation as they move in rhythm to one another. 

Sherlock chuckles, and briefly moves the hand at John’s hip to lift John’s chin in order to meet his gaze. “You’re doing fine,” Sherlock reassures, “there’s no need to be nervous. I’m hardly about to make you dance a tango. I don’t want trampled feet anymore than you want to trip.”

John huffs a laugh at that. It helps him take the final step in truly relaxing into Sherlock’s lead. Relinquishing control is certainly familiar to him. 

After a little while of peaceful swaying, John asks, “So, what have you been studying?”

Sherlock doesn’t stop moving, but there’s an awkward pause while he tries to parse out what John means, and manages an impassive but questioning hum. 

“Earlier,” John explains, “you said that these sorts of evenings include dancing. Where did you get that idea?”

Sherlock smirks down at John, “It doesn’t take someone of my intellect to know what people consider romantic. And anniversaries are dates where one partner goes above and beyond for the other. Hardly a difficult leap.”

“Yes,” John allows, “but you’re the same person that tried to do the whole ‘stretching arms across the couch’ trick. All because you heard that it was something couples did.”

“Are you ever going to let that rather embarrassing social fumble go?” Sherlock asks without any real acridity in his voice.

John looks at the ceiling as if he’s deeply considering the answer, “Nope. Probably not.”

Sherlock tries to hold back his smile, and fails a little bit. Instead of answering John’s original inquiry, Sherlock takes the time to admire the smoothness of the fabric under his hand, and the way he can feel John’s muscles shift with each step. 

There’s a new intimacy in this for Sherlock as well. He’s felt John many times, in countless extensions of the definition, but this easy camaraderie is fresh to him. John trusts him to lead this dance, if nothing else, and Sherlock cradles that trust like a baby bird in his palms. 

And when Sherlock rubs his thumb along John’s wrist, the rapidness of his heartbeat only strengthens the metaphor. The long shadows of the candles move much quicker across the floor than the dancing pair, but somehow the flickering compliments their movements. 

Sherlock eventually answers, “I don’t completely forget social norms. Dancing is inherently romantic, or at least passionate, in most cultures. And I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to enjoy the simple pleasure of dancing with you. If I had requested it on any other night, you would have automatically been tense about it. More than likely fostering the assumption that the dance would involve something heinous. 

But after a night of romantic clichés and assurances that nothing untoward would happen to you, I was hopeful that you would accept my offer. And here you are,” Sherlock smiled in gentle triumph.

John blinks up at him, piecing together what Sherlock is actually saying. “So, all of this,” he nods his head at the table, at the candles and the shimmering golden fabric, “was to get me relaxed enough to dance?”

Sherlock ponders this, “Essentially,” he allows, “but again, social predilections place slow dancing in the top five percentile of a good anni-“

John has to crane upwards in order to kiss Sherlock. Especially since the man wasn’t expecting the kiss, and therefore didn’t bow his head to meet him halfway. The shock of John’s kiss makes Sherlock stop moving completely. 

And the stillness makes John realize what he just did. And it drenches him like being submerged in icy water. 

John honestly doesn’t know why he did it. And that scares him. That scares him more than the panic attack he’d had on the way into the hospital. It scares him more than any torture Sherlock could come up with.

John always plans. That’s what his life is now. Planning everything he does down to obsessive detail, to be sure that he never missteps, and every sacrifice he makes is on his own terms. 

He didn’t have a reason to kiss Sherlock just now. He just…wanted to. 

John doesn’t get the chance to be hysterical about that like he wants to. Sherlock is already pulling him closer and leaning down so John doesn’t have to strain his neck. The hand on John’s waist slides up to cup the back of his skull, while the other lets go of John’s hand to press against his back.

They’re just softly pressing their lips together, which is a noticeable difference from the way Sherlock’s kisses usually are. There’s always some level of hardness to them. Sherlock’s kisses are normally hasty, forceful, possessive, and involve some degree of biting. But not this one. 

This one is tender and affectionate. John can feel Sherlock’s plush lips move against his thin ones in gentle insistency, but there’s no pressure behind them. Sherlock isn’t forcing anything. He’s just kissing. John is the one who parts his lips first to softly lap at Sherlock’s. 

And even then, Sherlock doesn’t clutch or squeeze John in surprised gratification. He just opens his mouth. And now John can mostly taste champagne on Sherlock’s tongue, but without any sour flavor of alcohol. Their tongues press gently against each other, simply exploring the other’s mouth in lazy pleasure. John wonders if Sherlock can taste his heartbeat as much as John can taste the champagne.

Slowly, after the soft and wet sounds have filled John’s ears, he pulls away. His own hands have wandered over Sherlock as well. One is placed to steady himself on Sherlock’s shoulder while the other had been caressing a cheekbone with his thumb. 

John’s breathing is shallow, which causes his lapels and the buttons of his shirt to brush against Sherlock’s in an erotic paradigm. John wonders why he’s searching for breath when they haven’t danced or kissed for very long.

He’s brought out of his reverie when Sherlock gently places a hand against his cheek. His head is slowly tilted back up, and Sherlock places a chaste kiss upon his forehead. 

Sherlock leans down, wrapping his arms around John as if he intends to shield him with his own body. Or to encase him inside of his own veins and skin, so that John might never touch anything that isn’t wholly Sherlock ever again.

“Let’s go home John,” Sherlock murmurs.


	4. Chapter 4

The ride back to Baker Street is filled with silence. John was still reeling from his initiation of the kiss, and Sherlock’s assessment of his character. John tries to tell himself over and over again that it wasn’t true. He didn’t live for this, didn’t crave this lifestyle of constant fear and anxiety. He couldn’t possibly find enjoyment out of living like his feet were strapped to land mines. 

But Sherlock’s words were still choking him with their honesty. John forces himself to swallow his confusion, unable to do anything about it now, as he is unable to do anything for a lot of things. 

When they arrive at their home, John waits with Sherlock until the guard opens the door. It isn’t as though he’s going to try and run after all this time, but demonstrating restraint always endears Sherlock to him. The man loves to see how far he can push before John’s tight control cracks under pressure. 

John leans against the door while Sherlock exchanges a few parting instructions with the driver. As they cross the threshold with Sherlock closing and locking the door behind them, John felt a little bit of weight ease itself from his shoulders. 

The words still linger at the back of his mind, but here was the closest thing he had to a home. Sherlock follows him up the stairs and into their bedroom, still not saying a word.

As John removes the suit jacket from his shoulders, he is struck by the sudden realization that all of this feels…normal. He’s had a genuinely pleasant evening, and now he is going to bed with good food and champagne lingering in his stomach. 

John hangs up his jacket in the closet, making room for Sherlock as he did the same. Sherlock’s heat is comfortably emanating against his side, and John tries not to revel in the scent of juniper shampoo.

When John reaches up to loosen his tie, he is stopped by a hand curling around his wrist. John turns around to face Sherlock, careful not to tug against Sherlock’s grip. 

He just stares at Sherlock’s face, which is looking at him with an expression so gentle that John could not recall ever having seen it before. Sherlock lets go of John’s wrist, brushing it to the side as he undoes John’s tie with a few deft tugs of his fingers. 

The sound of the satin sliding free is much louder than it has any right to be. Instead of pulling it off and hanging it, Sherlock begins to flick open John’s shirt buttons. 

John nearly steps back to try and help, but Sherlock stops him by placing a hand under his chin and tilting it upward so that he can lean in and kiss him. As John moves his lips against Sherlock’s, and moves his tongue in the familiar patterns, he’s distantly relieved. This is familiar territory. He can lose himself here, and not have to think about cutting truths or unknown motivations for a short while. 

The bedroom air is mildly chilly against his skin, causing John’s nipples to harden slightly. He arches into Sherlock’s touch when those long fingers graze against the rising nubs. Sherlock pushes the shirt down, and John shrugs with the motion. For a wild moment, John worries about the fastened cuff buttons, before those are also flicked through their holes. The shirt is tossed somewhere behind Sherlock in the next second, and John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck to pull him down for another kiss. 

It’s the way Sherlock jerks in surprise that reminds John that, once again, he’s initiated. His mind takes a sudden spiral downward, and the pleasant contentment quickly turns sour. John pulls his arms away, about to step back, when Sherlock’s hand wraps around the back of skull.

He tips John’s head back by his hair, and keeps kissing him in earnest. He moves until John’s back presses against the wall. 

John can feel his smothered instincts kick in, can feel the urge to resist like the compulsory need to breathe even while being submerged underwater. Even while it makes his gorge rise, to know that he can’t do a thing now that he’s tried to pull away, he’s almost glad to be back into this routine. Right now, he knows how this goes, and nothing unexpected can show up to throw his mind into chaos.

So he leans into the kiss, concedes by tilting his neck to deepen it. There is nothing here but his internal struggle and his outward surrender. 

John gasps when Sherlock moves on to his neck, arches in just the right way for better access. Sherlock sucks at a particularly sensitive spot, and John grips Sherlock’s shoulders for stability. He pretends that he’s imagining clawing into that pale back, and not trying to find a steady anchor.

John completely forgot about the tie still dangling across his shoulders, until Sherlock starts to pull it off. As Sherlock pulls back to smirk at him, John already knows what the tie is going to be used for before he’s twirled around. Sherlock brings the fabric up to his lips, and he parts them without a sound. The fabric slides into his mouth, quickly soaking with saliva. Sherlock secures the knot efficiently, firmly enough so it doesn’t move, but not enough that it digs into the back of his head. 

John feels Sherlock’s fingers pinch the back of the knot to keep him from moving his head too much, while he sees the free hand reach for something in the top of the closet. Sherlock pulls down what he was looking for, and dangles the black leather cuffs in John’s peripheral vision. He’s just letting them swing there, giving John ample time to fight back.

But John’s breath just huffs out against the wall, and he crosses his wrists behind him without being told. The leather cinches over his wrists, a steady weight that, in this moment, feels less like a binding and more like a lifeline. 

Then Sherlock’s moving him again, but not towards the bed like John had assumed. Instead he’s maneuvered in front of the mirror, and is pushed down until he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. He feels Sherlock join him, pressing up against his back. Sherlock’s legs splay out on either side of him, and John feels truly surrounded.

John could deal with the bondage, the gag, and the abrupt shift into sex, he’s been doing that almost every day. What makes him nervous is the mirror. 

He’s always avoided imagining what Sherlock looks like when John is trussed up like this. Now, he can see the intense concentration on Sherlock’s face when he trails his fingers up and down his neck. He knows how far Sherlock’s lips part when he leans down to suckle another mark onto John’s shoulder. 

The worst part is seeing his own expression staring back at him. Now, he knows how far his legs will spread in silent invitation. He knows the stutter of his chest when Sherlock uses a little too much teeth. Now he knows the shade of blue in his eyes that means he’s looking forward to what happens next. 

There’s a flash of disgust on John’s face. For once, it’s not directed at the usual culprit. 

John knows better than to turn his head away, so he tries to close his eyes instead. That doesn’t last very long when Sherlock suddenly grips his neck. 

“Don’t look away John,” Sherlock says in a voice that is as gentle and cold as falling snow, “I know you want to, I know that it makes you more comfortable when you deny these things. But I won’t let you lie to yourself now.”

Sherlock’s hands move down to open up John’s trousers as he mouths the words into John’s shoulder. Sherlock stops removing them long enough to slide a hand down the fabric. He gently cups and fondles John’s sac, smiling slightly when John begins to squirm. 

He reaches up with his other hand to lightly pinch and twist John’s nipple, cataloging what John sounds like when he gasps around wet silk. 

“I haven’t bound you because I like to see you restrained, and I haven’t gagged you because I like to hear your muffled moans,” Sherlock hums in amusement as he tugs at John’s balls and admits, “Well, it’s not the only reason.”

“I’ve done it because I’ve taken away the option of protest, and tying you up relieves you of the burden of fighting back. When you’re unable to do anything, you can let go without any regard to your precious dignity.”

John’s eyes lock onto Sherlock’s in their reflection. He slowly shook his head, even though John wasn’t entirely sure what he was denying. 

“When you’re given something to fight against, you rage against it with every breath and bone in your body. It’s what makes you so remarkable. You’ve told yourself that you have to fight against me in order to live with yourself.”

Sherlock works John’s trousers off of his hips, and John knows that now would be a perfect time to prove him wrong. He could slam his head into Sherlock’s nose, or twist away from Sherlock’s steady hands. Instead he raises his hips so Sherlock can slide his trousers down easier. 

“You think that if you tell yourself that you’ve done all you can, you can excuse the fact that you’ve stopped fighting long ago. Every time I put you in restraints, you can assure yourself that there’s nothing you can do anymore.”

Sherlock’s hand slid underneath John’s briefs, finally touching bare skin. John jolts, heart racing with arousal and desperate denial. 

“This whole night, you’ve been fighting me. Preparing for the worst that I can offer you. Or you’ve been walking around words as if my temper is a desert landscape laced with touch sensitive explosives.”

John inwardly shivers at how accurate that metaphor is, to equate Sherlock with Afghanistan. They’re equally as alluring to John’s fucked up addiction with danger. Sherlock twists his fingers on John’s thickening member, and his deep voice continues to unravel John’s mind.

“Everything, including your restraints, is to prove to you that you don’t have to see us as enemies John. You are as strong and fierce as well forged steel, and I made you that way, but eventually even you will tire of this constant alert. You can put a stop to this pointless and ceaseless struggle.”

The hand that was hardening him slides out from John’s underwear. He’s being pushed forward, and only Sherlock’s steady grip on his shoulder keeps him from falling hard on his face. His underwear is pulled all the way down to his knees, hobbling him, which moves up his thigh to caress his exposed cheeks. There’s the snap of a cap being opened, and some frustrated shifting as Sherlock tries to slick his fingers with one hand. John knows he succeeds when a slick coolness trails its way up from his perineum to his hole. 

John knows that there’s nothing wrong with being acclimated to something that you’ve been subjected to for a whole year. But some tiny part of himself always manages to worry at how easily his body relaxes to Sherlock’s touch. 

The finger gently circles around his rim, barely pressing in a little bit at a time, until finally it slides inside. The sensation is almost negligible compared to what John is used to, but he still rustles the carpet fibers with his breath when Sherlock softly rubs over his prostate. 

John keeps still, flexing his hands in their restraints. He twitches when he feels more lubricant being dripped onto his arsehole, making him so slick it’s almost gratuitous. The second finger doesn’t cause any discomfort, just increases the lovely sensation of fullness. The pads of Sherlock’s fingers rub either side of John’s nerves, never quite stimulating enough to be jarring, but just enough to warrant a steady leak of precome from his cock, and John hopes that his trousers are kicked far enough away that he won’t have to worry about staining them. 

Sherlock’s gone slow with him before. He’s drawn it out to the point where John was begging so earnestly that tears had fallen down his cheeks. He’s been careful too, either in bringing pleasure or pain. Something is different about this time, pushing through John’s lust hazed mind.

It takes Sherlock’s hand rubbing firm circles into the small of John’s back, and the way his fingers bring him enough pleasure so that he’s never aching, but never enough to fall into orgasm that the word finally rushes to the front of John’s mind.

Gentle. Sherlock is being gentle. 

Sherlock adds a third finger, and John groans into the carpet. He’s not sure if he’s becoming impatient with the pace, or if it makes him unbelievably terrified that Sherlock is even capable of something this tender, but John finally pushes his lower body back onto Sherlock’s fingers without waiting.

The free hand swiftly moves to his hip, keeping him in place. John lets out a moan of protest, but internally he anticipates for things to become rougher, for them to move back onto familiar territory. 

But Sherlock just holds him in place as he slowly takes John apart. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t indicate that John just committed a transgression by trying to push them away from something Sherlock clearly had planned for him. He just holds John in place as he continues to rub John’s insides.

After a tortuously long time, Sherlock decides that John’s pliant body is finally ready. John shifts on the floor when those long fingers are pulled from his body, but Sherlock keeps a firm grip on his hip.

John hears the sound of fastenings being freed, and the rustle of cloth down skin. Then he’s being pulled backward and up. There’s a dizzying sensation as the blood rushes down from his head, followed by a stab of unexpected pleasure when Sherlock positions him to sit on his cock. 

The preparation makes it such a smooth glide down that he barely feels it enter him. He only knows that he’s full when he feels himself clench in surprise, and when the head of Sherlock’s cock passes over his sensitive prostate.

John throws his head back onto Sherlock’s shoulder, uttering a guttural clicking sound. He rubs his head against soft and expensive fabric, confirming that Sherlock only pushed down his trousers, and didn’t bother with the rest. 

Sherlock gently pushes at the back of his skull, bringing his forward to face the mirror again. John’s flushed from face to hips, his chest is heaving from his breath, and his legs are splayed on either side of Sherlock’s, which leaves him spread open for the cock that is throbbing inside of him.

John’s sure he turns a few shades darker at the sight, and tries to turn away again. This time, Sherlock lets him. 

There’s not much leverage Sherlock or John can achieve in this position. Sherlock can only manage maddening and stuttering little thrusts of his hips. John tries to bounce himself to get the stimulation he needs, but with his legs trapped and his arms tied, there’s nothing he can do.

Sherlock’s aimlessly trailing hands all over his body don’t help the excruciating tease. He skims his hands over John’s skin, mapping the fluttering muscles and measuring the rapid beats of his heart. He occasionally flicks over a nipple, or even strokes his cock, but he never gives enough to tip John over the edge. 

Keening moans spill past the gag, dribbling from John’s mouth like the trail of saliva that ends at his chin. John’s eyes open to slits, and he focuses on himself in the mirror. He fully absorbs the debauched picture he has become, the wanton creature that squirms on top of cock and waits for more.

He wonders when he stopped being disgusted by how much he enjoys it. John shuts his eyes again.

Sherlock grips the base of John’s cock, enough that John jolts in surprise, dragging his long fingers up and down the length. He forms a tight channel for John to fuck, and judging by the bubbling noises emerging from his throat, he’s very grateful about it. 

Sherlock revels in the warm pleasure traveling from his groin to his gut. John squeezes firmly around him that it’s almost enough to make up for the lack of thrusting.

He nibbles on the nape of John’s neck, leaving little indents of his teeth around the top of the vertebrae. He sucks along every inch of skin he can, the bright pink marks promising to blossom into darker shades. 

Sherlock deftly twists his hand around John’s cock, listening to him become increasingly desperate for release. When he rubs his fingers over the head of John’s prick, the moan is exquisite enough to compel him into action. 

John often forgets how strong Sherlock is. From squirming uselessly to suddenly lying flat on his back, he barely had time to realize that the room was spinning around him. And there’s no pain from the abrupt shift either, as Sherlock’s made sure that he doesn’t jar anything on the way down.

John’s blinking up at Sherlock’s face, which is equally as flush as his own, with those silver eyes shining with lust. John’s hands clench underneath his body, and his arched chest is like an offering.

Sherlock accepts, moving his head down to plant kisses across John’s clavicle, his sternum, and the underside of one of his nipples. He pulls away so he can maneuver John’s lower body across most of his lap, so he’s almost straddling him while lying down. 

Sherlock slides back into John, and John feels as though all of the air has been sweetly pulled from his lungs. Sherlock begins with a slow rhythm, smiling down at John’s helpless attempts to try and find some leverage. John drops back down and gives up at trying to dictate the speed when Sherlock holds onto his hips.

The slow surge back and forth feels as inevitable as a tide. There’s no stop to the sweetness of being filled, then left bereft, then filled again. Sweat trickles down John’s temples, and his hands clench with the need to twist through Sherlock’s hair, or scratch down his back, or entwine their fingers together. 

John becomes breathless again at the last thought. He opens his eyes, searching Sherlock’s as if for an answer to the unexpected impulse. 

All John finds is tenderness, and he feels his heart stutter. 

He turns his head away again. John’s not sure if it would be called cowardice, or self-preservation, to continually refuse facing your steadying decline from sanity. 

John’s not turned back to face Sherlock, but he does feel the man lean down to get close to his ear. Three words ghost over the side of his face, and John is entirely certain that he’s heard incorrectly. It’s repeated again, much clearer and with the addition of his name.

“I love you John.” 

He feels a kiss at the top of his jaw bone, which trails down and over until Sherlock is kissing his lips. Now that it has been said out loud, it feels like Sherlock continues saying it in the way he cradles John’s hips, in every undulation of his pelvis, and in the press of his lips. 

It feels as though those words were the key to unlocking the encryption that is Sherlock Holmes’ motivation. 

John can feel something in his heart being pulled free, to sit raw and naked in unforgiving light. There’s an obstruction in his windpipe and something hot is falling from his eyes. 

The words worm their way into John’s mind, spiraling through his nerves and lighting them on fire. John bucks up into Sherlock’s thrusts, desperate to nullify his senses. 

Sherlock meets his demands, picking up his pace until John has no room left for any thought except ‘more’. Each thrust is punctuated by a wrenching noise from John’s throat. Sherlock is murmuring gentle reassurances, and it’s then that John hears his desperate pleas that he had mistaken for moans. 

Sherlock rubs away a trail of John’s tears with a thumb, and moves it to the soldier’s lips for him to suck. Sherlock quickly chases the taste on John’s tongue, swallowing any further cries. The flavor of John’s tears, mixed with the helpless cries of John’s unraveling mind and body, causes Sherlock’s rhythm to falter.

He pulls away from John’s mouth, and presses as close to him as possible as his orgasm crests over him. He moans into John’s neck, shaking from the power of it.

Sherlock maneuvers a hand between their stomachs while he still tries to regain his breath. He wraps a hand around John’s pulsing length, squeezing and stroking in practiced motions. 

John picks up his writhing in fevered earnest, and his shoulders will doubtlessly suffer terrible rug burn. His ankles dig into the small of Sherlock’s back, but Sherlock welcomes the discomfort to hear John murmur, “Please, please Sherlock, please.” 

Sherlock loves the way the words ghost over his own mouth like satin ribbons in a gentle breeze. John’s body is clearly as taut as it will go, and he’s just waiting for the right moment to snap. Sherlock murmurs back to John, “It’s alright. Let go. I’m here.”

John keens as he spills over Sherlock’s hand. His body spasms several times, before he collapses back down onto his own arms. 

A very indescribable silence fills the room as both men get their breath back. Sherlock gently rolls John over onto his side, slowly undoing the restraints. John’s hands have turned slightly red from the circumvented circulation, and there’s an angry red spread across his shoulders that promises to be a very memorable friction rash. 

After he’s set the restraints off to the side, he slides an arm under John’s shoulders, prompting him to sit up. With some help, they both stand, although John feels considerably less stable. John lies down on the bed without direction from Sherlock, letting his hands lay gently at his sides to reestablish proper circulation.

Sherlock bends down, picking something up from the floor. John sees a swath of indigo fabric, and his hand darts out before he even knows he’s moved. 

His fingers are wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist, and he’s staring straight into Sherlock’s eyes while his heartbeat thrums in his ears. Sherlock looks like he’s expecting an answer.

“…It’s expensive. And I like the way it looks,” John explains. 

Sherlock smiles and leans down to peck John softly on the lips. John’s heart stops trying to escape out of his skull.

“I’ll get you another one if it stains, but honestly my dry cleaner has dealt with much worse.”

Which is a line of conversation that John tends to steer away from, so he goes quiet and releases Sherlock’s hand. 

As Sherlock cleans up his spunk with the most expensive piece of clothing he’s ever owned, John examines his pale profile. He knows that particular mind works constantly, and is never slowed by anything short of a hard blow to the head, but there seems to be an absent contentment on Sherlock’s face.

John thinks back to soothing hands, gentle preparation, and whispered words that poison his senses with their honesty. 

‘The tragedy in all of this,’ John thinks, ‘is that I know what he’s doing.’ He’s not sure if Sherlock is being deliberately unsubtle, or that John’s sense of survival has taught him that Sherlock never does anything for one reason. 

Either way, this is a fairly textbook demonstration of initiating Stockholm Syndrome. Not that John has been suffering daily torture, but he doesn’t need to. The myriad of scars along his body say that he doesn’t need to endure something constantly for it to have a lasting impression. 

By planting the idea that Sherlock is capable of compassion, then John is meant to examine his own behaviors and find them somehow lacking. That he is, for whatever reason, responsible for his own misfortune. 

But he isn’t falling for it. He’s _not_. 

John shimmies over to the other side of the bed to make way for Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t care less which side of the bed he takes, but John enjoys any opportunity at routine that he can find.

Sherlock climbs in after having cleaned himself off with something John didn’t see. He is definitely making sure that Sherlock takes that shirt to the dry cleaners first before he ever wears it again. 

Sherlock settles down beside him with a contented sigh, draping an arm across John’s chest. John turns over onto his side, and Sherlock presses himself along his back, nuzzling his nape. Hot breath spreads across his neck as Sherlock expels any remaining tension in his body.

As if he has anything to be tense about. As if Sherlock has a thousand different thoughts buzzing like kicked wasps in his head. As if he’s the one standing on the edge of a precipice, being slowly pushed forward every passing day.

_Would it really be so bad?_ , whispers a part of him that is fighting to be heard amongst the multitudes, _Would it really be so bad to give in?_

John thinks about crisp suits and sweet champagne, about easy laughter and simple affection. He knows it comes with a price, he knows this. He’s certainly been overcharged on his pound of flesh, and Sherlock will never be done with him. 

However, if those whispered words against his skin were real…then…

John watches his hand curl up into a fist. It wouldn’t matter either way, he tells himself. The language of the obsession doesn’t change the fact that Sherlock’s dangerously overzealous. 

But to know that he’s not being kept as a novelty, but rather as a singular human point of fixation, feels an awful lot like gravity has suddenly decided to flip.

Sherlock’s hand slides over John’s, rubbing the back of it soothingly until his fingers uncurl to stop making indentations in his palm. Sherlock laces their finger together, and John feels the weight of everything pressing against his mind leave in a poisonous exhale.

It isn’t as though he’s ignoring this. The question of Sherlock Holmes’ affections, and how this very much affects John’s mental stability, is not something that is going to disappear with some deep sleep. But there is a sort of acidic relief in the fact that there’s nothing he can do about it right now.

_Just like Sherlock said about your comfort with bondage_ something worn and tired reminds him before he slips into slumber. 

Sherlock continues to rub his thumb against a small patch of John’s skin. He entertains the thought of John being smeared by his fingerprints until he glimmers with dermal oils like a polished stone. He hears John’s heartbeat and breathing smooth into the regular pattern of his sleep, quietly marveling at the exceptional success this night turned out to be. 

Ever since he’s met John, he’s wanted nights like this. Perhaps not always as honey-golden and ordinary, but this quiet domesticity is something Sherlock covets like the rarest butterfly to an entomologist. 

This night, for all intents and purposes, was a spectacle. And Sherlock applauds John for playing his part perfectly. 

All of Sherlock’s lines were true. He is in love with John. As much as ‘love’ could ever be defined as something so profoundly consuming. And while their games of give and take have been exhilaratingly creative, Sherlock never had any intention of settling for John’s compliance.

He still wants his loyalty, his devotion, his love. And they have many years together for Sherlock to craft the right emotional responses for it to become genuine. 

It’s the greatest game he’s ever played, and there’s no end to it. 

Smiling like a skull at the thought, Sherlock presses a kiss against the underside of John’s ear and whispers, “Happy anniversary John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your continued support and patience. Once again a story from this AU is finished, but it's not yet completed. I hope you continue to enjoy my works no matter the fandom or story line. You all stay wonderful!


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